


Our Lady of Mercy

by Ljósfari (Ljosfari)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Cunnilingus, Dom/sub, F/F, Heavy-handed metaphors, Light Bondage, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Roman Catholicism, lord help me I'm back on my bullshit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-04-08 13:02:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14105970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ljosfari/pseuds/Lj%C3%B3sfari
Summary: Angela is infuriating, and part of Moira wants to lash out her rage on her. Angela knows, and she has asked, no,beggedfor Moira to hurt her, to degrade her many other times.But not today. Today Moira looks at Angela and sees her beloved in the image and likeness of God.





	Our Lady of Mercy

**Author's Note:**

> proofreading is for squares and mama raised no fucking square

Angela’s fingers tug on short red hair, making Moira look her in the eye. “I’m in no rush,  _ häsli _ . Are you?”

Moira swallows, breathing in the heady scent of her mistress’ arousal, tasting the trace of it on her tongue. Angela tugs harder on her hair, scowling in disdain. “Are you in a rush, Moira?” 

“I am not, mistress.”

“Then do not hurry. Show me how well that mouth of yours can do.” 

And so she does, spurred by Angela’s praise, submerging her face again between her mistress’ legs, kissing her milk-white thighs up, up towards the crux of her legs. She wants nothing more than to grab those generous thighs, to pull her closer and to  _ touch _ . But she cannot, not with her wrists and elbows tied together in front of her, kneeling as if in prayer before her immaculate mistress, so she shows her adoration with lips and tongue. 

She presses close-mouthed kisses to Angela’s mound, parts her lips with her tongue, avoids her clit, teasing, patient as she’s instructed to be. Angela’s grip slacks, softly petting her hair where she’s been harsh before. She drags her fingertips ever so softly over the nape of Moira’s neck, and Moira shivers as her touch runs electric from her head down her spine. Moira gasps at her mistress’ touch, and Angela laughs, a mirthful sound in the back of her throat. 

“Aren’t you a pretty sight on your knees?” Angela muses, her hips picking up Moira’s slow pace and her hand running over Moira’s freckled shoulders. “So eager. So reverent.”

How wouldn’t she be, having a veritable angel for a lover? Beautiful and magnificent and fearsome in her wrath, as close to the visage of God as her flesh can be. She grants her sanctifying grace to a sinner like Moira, and Moira praises her blessed name. In every lick, every kiss, every press of Moira’s lips on her mistress’ cunt, there’s a prayer, a supplication. 

_ Morning star, Health of the sick, Refuge of sinners, Comforter of the afflicted, Help of Christians, Queen of Angels.  _

Part of her wants to defile Angela, to sully her, to make her unclean and to put her in her place. She’s sick of Mercy, of the guardian angel of Overwatch, of the holier-than-thou prick that weighs her work down, that weighs Moira down. While Angela lives in the spotlight, being loved and celebrated by academia and public opinion alike, Moira creeps in the shadow, slaving away at projects too terrible to mention, ideas that fuel the miracles Angela performs. 

Angela is infuriating, and part of Moira wants to lash out her rage on her. Angela knows, and she has asked, no,  _ begged  _ for Moira to hurt her, to degrade her many other times.

But not today. Today Moira looks at Angela and sees her beloved in the image and likeness of God. She would not dare raise her hand against the Most Holy, even though Moira is an unrepentant blasphemer, a Miltonian Lucifer who works to take God’s work from God’s hands. Yet even a wretch like her may feel something akin to grace when she submits to her blessed mistress. 

So she puts her mouth to good use, her nose brushing on trimmed blonde hair as her tongue darts over Angela’s clit, her mistress’ hips rocking gently as Moira strokes the folds with her lips. Her warm thighs engulf Moira’s head, and her hand over Moira’s hair feels like a blessing, even when it tugs and pulls demanding more. 

Moira dares to look up – not stopping, never stopping – and the sight of Angela makes her catch her breath. Angela looks wreathed by a halo of sunlight as she palms her breast with one hand, teasing her own nipple with her index and middle fingers, the cups of her white bra pulled down. Her moans sound like heavenly music on Moira’s ears, so Moira quickens her pace, eager to please. 

Angela looks at Moira with the most tender of gazes and Moira chokes up, overwhelmed. “You’re doing so, so well, my love,” she croons, and she gasps when Moira hums on her clit, contented. “Keep up, and you will be rewarded.”

Her mistress pulls Moira even closer and rests one foot on her shoulder, stiletto heel dangerously close to her collarbone. She’s rutting her hips, clawing at Moira’s scalp and back, head thrown back in ecstasy as she pants and moans her praise for her supplicant.  _ This, this must be how rapture feels like _ , Moira thinks as Angela comes undone.

Angela slowly comes down from her orgasm, eyes unfocused and muscles weak. She gingerly pushes Moira’s face away, letting her rest her head on her thigh, and reaches out for a handkerchief. She wipes Moira’s face clean and idly traces her thin lips when she’s done, considering what tender torture to inflict on her beloved pet next. Moira dares not to move, dares not to suck on Angela's fingers – for why would she want to displease her divine mistress, to disappoint her? She does open her mouth for Angela, letting her roving fingers explore beyond the boundary of her lips before Angela pulls them out to cup Moira’s cheek. She bends over to kiss Moira, slow and measured, and smiles beatifically at her as she unties her pleading hands, golden rope falling to the floor. 

“Get up, my dear.” Angela helps Moira to her feet, holding her so she doesn’t topple over on her shaky knees, and nudges her to sit on her lap and finally, finally touch Angela, and hold her and feel her breathing in unison with her. “I do believe you’re due for a reward.”

_ All shall be well,  _ Moira recalls the old verses as Angela’s hands roam her body _ , and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well. _

**Author's Note:**

> here we are gathered today, straddling the fine line between "forgive me father for i have sinned" and "sorry daddy i've been bad"
> 
> anyway thanks for reading, feedback is extremely welcome, feel free to tear me a new face


End file.
